


of individuation

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftercare, Anonymous Sex, Barebacking, Bondage, Bottom Armitage Hux, Box Bondage, Creampie, Dissociation, Dominant Kylo Ren, Group Sex, M/M, Objectification, POV Second Person, Semi-Public Sex, Sensory Deprivation, Submissive Armitage Hux, Top Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: It is dark all around you and you are nothing but a hole.(Or: Hux experiences a lot of strange emotions while trapped inside a box and used for the pleasure of strangers. And Kylo).
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81
Collections: Kylux Stuck Inside Week 2020





	of individuation

**Author's Note:**

> Another entry for Stuck Week, this time for the prompt "Sensory Deprivation." This is a little bit experimental, but I hope it's okay?
> 
> I imagined the other people fucking Hux were the KOR, but I didn't directly reference them so I didn't tag it as such. That was my vision, but you can imagine them as whoever you'd like!
> 
> Enjoy!

It is dark all around you.

You can no longer remember how long it’s been since you’ve been put in here, or really, whether you’ve been in here all along. You can’t see, can’t move, can’t feel much of anything but what you’ve been allowed to feel in your crouched position—the solid floor against your knees, the cushioned restraints ringing your ankles and hips, keeping you still and immobile. Not that you think you could move on your own, if you could. You’ve been here so long, you feel maybe you’ve lost the ability to walk, or do anything at all but moan and tremble slightly and drool. Your arms are up, stretching somewhere out in the void in front of you, but they’re restrained too, useless to do anything but curl their fingers and bite their nails into his clammy palms. 

It’s warm in here, stifling. It smells faintly of musty salt and sweat, so you must be sweating, even if basic bodily functions feel so distant, so removed from you right now. 

It is dark all around you but it is not quiet as darkness should be, no. There are voices, muffled but there, speaking from beyond the boundaries of the void. You are ensconced in it but unprotected, resigned to vulnerability, unable to escape as a foreign hand trails along the bare sole of your foot. You twitch, crying out mutely, toes curling inwards. In the distance, someone laughs and says something indecipherable. Another voice answers him, engaging in a conversation you are not allowed to be privy too. 

In the darkness, you are nothing. To them, however many there are out there, you are nothing. 

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. It echoes in your ears, rebounding endlessly within the confines of the darkness. Nothing. 

The hand trails up your ankle, momentarily departing only to return atop your ass. The flesh there feels cooler, much cooler than the you that lies inside of the darkness, festering, marinating in your own indefiniteness. Your body, split between two different worlds, powerless in both. 

You shiver as the phantom hand slips between your asscheeks, spreading them out and exposing your hole to the cool air outside the darkness. The voice returns with muffled approval, before a thumb traces over your furl. You twitch, tightening up, and the voice laughs again and makes a comment, causing several others to join in. 

More sensations follow after that, concentrated on that one, tight point. The drizzling of something viscous between your buttocks, the pressure of the fingers as they delve inside of you and scissor, stretching you out. You arch your back, spine scraping against something solid, warmth pinching through the vague area of your loins. It never gets beyond that, though, the fingers more for the ease of their owner than for your pleasure, which is fine. Your body is no longer yours—it’s meant to be used by whoever wishes to use it. 

Even so you can’t help but keen, your own voice both muffled and too loud, when something thick and blunt replaces the fingers and sinks into you all the way. The darkness shakes around you as the intrusion begins to move, thrusting in and out, sending pleasure twined with stings of pain shooting through across the remains of your coherent mind as if to ground you in a reality you’ve long lost hold of. 

It feels like the motion lasts forever, but it’s still nothing compared to the seemingly endless eternity you’ve already endured, time becoming irrelevant. However long has passed, the end is the same, with a wet warmth bursting instead of you, spreading, spilling out when the intrusion retreats, only to be pushed back inside when another slips through your hole. And it continues like this, over and over, the last of your cognizance fucked out of you as you sink further into the darkness, your mind fragmenting and sent adrift amongst a sea of pleasure, of isolation. There’s some kind of strange peace in that, in losing yourself, and you feel ready to let the darkness completely take you, weigh you down until you dissipate and sink. 

It is dark all around you and you are nothing but a hole. Something for others to use. You doubt you even have a body anymore, with all physical sensations apart from that stretching, pistoning movements and the pleasure they inspire having gone numb. Existence, once so easy to accept, feels utterly unattainable, pointless. There is nothing for you but the aimless pleasure of being used, of spilling your own seed out into the starving void, who swallows it all up without a trace. 

But when the next intrusion doesn’t come, confusion brings you back from the brink. The voices outside are silent, your world abruptly lacking its white noise. Without it, everything seems so unnerving, bringing you from total submission back to an odder, more liminal state. Out of nowhere you remember that you _do_ actually have a body—and what’s more, you have a head, a neck supporting its weight, growing heavier as coherent thought comes crawling back. You turn it slightly, and something cracks, realigning. You let out a soft groan, and the dawning confusion in your voice finally invites something to reach out to you. 

Not a hand nor a cock but an intangible _presence_ begins to skim, cautious, along the boundaries of the darkness cocooning you, then pushes deeper, penetrating through until it trails along the very outlines of your mind. It helps them solidify, compartmentalize, bring order back to the hazy chaos. Then it’s saying something to you, something you finally have the strength to understand. 

_Hux…_

It’s—

_Hux…_

It’s your n—

_Hux…_

Stars above, it’s your name, you are—

“Hux?”

Light peers down upon him, forcing Hux to rapidly blink his eyes. Something large and solid is moving above him, momentarily blotting out the light but not reducing it to the darkness that had consumed him moments before. A litany of clicks rattle around him, and suddenly the restraints binding his ankles, wrists, and hips pop open. The box that had concealed him slowly retracts, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, in reality. 

As conscious thought slowly returns to him in full, Hux opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a weak, strangled groan. 

“I’ve got you. Don’t move, don’t speak.” It’s a command, but it comes out so softly that it doesn’t abrade his slowly reviving pride, so he complies. A hand settles on the back of his head, stroking his hair before trailing to his neck, then down the curve of his back. Hux leans into it and lets his eyelids droop half-open, a tingling sensation radiating out from the wake of the touch. It’s warm, in a pleasant way, not stifling and claustrophobic like the walls of the box were. He wants more of that warmth, to tuck himself against it, press closer than the boundaries of his skin would allow. Will it make existence more comfortable, easier to accept again? Maybe, maybe not, but he yearns for it nonetheless. 

Thankfully, after a moment of stroking the hands slide beneath him, turning him over and lifting him up into the air. Hux’s head lolls back only to rest against something solid, and just as warm as the hands cradling him. 

Still, Hux makes a soft, displeased noise when he feels wetness spill out of him. He lifts his head to look and scold himself for making a mess, only for the gentle press of lips to ease him back down. 

“Don’t, Hux. I’ll take care of everything.” Another kiss, trailing down the sore tear-tracks on his cheek. “Everyone was so pleased with you, you did so well. Now just relax, I’ve got you.”

Hux lets out an absent hum. Despite everything, he felt ready to relax, to sink into a deeper, but more calming and comforting sort of darkness altogether, with the grounding presence—who he knew to be Kylo Ren, the only man he trusted with the surrender inherent to such intimacy, no matter whether he lay in bed or bound within the box—curled around him as he slept. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked! I love comments, let me know how this made you feel! 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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